24 Iulie 2015 Lasă un comentariu
As a child, I didn’t always grasp the wisdom of my parents’ choices. Sure, I loved to travel, and I loved to read (my father would complain when I combined the two: “Look up from your books! You travel like suitcases!”), but mostly I longed to have jeans from the Gap, to own my own record player, to wear my hair feathered like the cool girls at school. I watched a lot of TV — from fifth grade on, I came home from school to an empty house (my mum was in law school then) and kept company with Get Smart, Gilligan’s Island, and what I considered a hipper set of shows, such as Diff’rent Strokes and Family Ties. By seventh grade, I took careful note of my friends’ grown-up acquisitions, all of which were beyond my hope: Heidi owned a water bed! Liz got a tweed skirt suit from Woolco! Beatrice wore blue eye shadow!
In retrospect, my sense of what and how I should be was wonderfully partial and fragmented — suggested, rather than insisted on, by rock music, benign sitcoms, and the kids around me. In middle school in Toronto, I was pretty autonomous: I had a bus pass, a bike, and a house key; much of the time, nobody worried about me or knew where I was. It was the late Seventies; we had bad haircuts and wore terrible clothes, a universal unloveliness of which there is mercifully little visual record. If we had acne, we had acne; if our noses shone, they shone.